The Royal We

by Heather Cocks

“Definitely not for that.” I could hear his smile. “But it’s wretched about your dad. I liked him so much. He treated me just like any other guy you might have been dating.”

  “Dad had a good eye for people.” My voice cracked.

  “I keep thinking about when I phoned to get the Thanksgiving recipes,” Nick said, running a hand down my arm and lacing our fingers. “He shouted, ‘Nancy, he’s in love with her, you owe me a steak.’”

  “You never told me that!”

  “If memory serves, we were otherwise occupied that night,” he said. “Anyway, he rang off by telling me I should only use the Chex Mix if I really, really meant it. I swore I didn’t have any impure intentions, and he made the most amazing noise. He knew before we even said it.”

  “And you used the Chex Mix.”

  “Well,” he said, “I really, really meant it.”

  We were still holding hands. He squeezed mine. “Every day, I wake up and tell myself that today is the day I’ll feel normal again,” he said. “And it never happens.”

  “I’ve tried not missing you. I’ve tried so hard,” I said, rolling onto my back. “But if it works, it never lasts.” I shook my head. “Sometimes I just wanted to talk to my friend Nick about my ex-boyfriend Nick.”

  “And I wanted to tell Friend Bex that Ex-Bex can wear trousers with a foot printed on the bum and still look devastating,” he said. “Friend Bex probably would’ve told me to stay away tonight in case I upset you more, but I couldn’t let you leave your mum in Iowa without me here when you walked in that door. And if that was inconsiderate, or arrogant, or presumptuous…”

  “It wasn’t any of those things,” I said. “It was perfect. You were perfect.”

  I sat up and wrapped the eiderdown around me, suddenly feeling extremely exposed even though he’d seen it all and then some.

  “That being said,” I started, “I don’t have any delusions. My dad died, and we’re both messed up about it, and I’m crazy vulnerable, and you’re probably taking extreme advantage of a bereaved lady because you’re a dangerous sex addict.”

  “That would be the headline in the Daily Mail, yes,” Nick said.

  “You’re off the hook, is what I’m saying,” I continued. “I loved this. I needed this. But I will not be needy about this. I’m not the kind of person who assumes that sex is a cure-all and that suddenly all our old problems are gone. Or even that this has to mean anything.”

  Nick heaved himself upward and sat against the headboard.

  “That’s marvelous,” he said, “except that I’ve no interest in being off the hook. I came here thinking I could just hug you and give you this possibly terrible lasagna I tried to make, but when I touched you, it was like I’d finally woken up after sleepwalking for two years.”

  I can’t truly have stopped breathing while he talked, but broken ceiling fans push air with more purpose than my lungs did.

  “I tried dating other people, and it felt so insincere, like I didn’t really mean it. And I didn’t. Because I am, as ever, completely, utterly, irrevocably in love with you,” Nick said, and as he quoted himself from Windsor, the tips of his ears began to vibrate, that old embarrassed tic I hadn’t seen since Oxford. “I don’t even know if you want to hear all this, and I’m certain this is the worst possible time for me to be telling you. But I learnt from you that sometimes just blurting things out leads to the best outcome.”

  He closed his eyes. “And there’s one more thing I need to confess,” he said. “Which is that I believe I’ve burnt the lasagna.”

  It was then that I noticed the acrid smell of charred tomato sauce floating through the flat.

  “My father is dead, and you torched my dinner so that we could have sex,” I said, after he’d turned off the oven and crawled back into bed. “If you’re not being sincere, things may take an ugly turn. You know how I am when I get low blood sugar.”

  Nick pressed his hands against his eyes and laughed. “Always so glib.”

  “Okay, how’s this for sincere,” I said. “I am, as ever, completely, utterly, irrevocably in love with you, too.”

  He sat up and pushed a stray strand of my hair behind my ear, such a familiar, comforting gesture, one he’d done a thousand times before and I never thought he’d do again. “Please don’t feel you have to say it back,” he said. “I just couldn’t not tell you any longer.”

  “I have never wanted to say anything more,” I said, and it wasn’t until he tenderly wiped them that I realized my cheeks were wet again. It is amazing how many tears the human body can produce once it gets going. “I love you. And I am so, so sad. Those two things can be equally true. I learned that the night we broke up.”

  “I went about us all wrong, Bex,” he said ruefully. “I took the wrong lesson away from Mum. The press might’ve been the trigger, but she was a loaded gun.” His eyes were bright with feeling. “Every day, I’ve thought that if I could do it over, I wouldn’t be so scared. I would tell Barnes and Marj and my father to get stuffed, and I wouldn’t keep you a secret from anyone. God, that last time I kissed you, I didn’t even do it properly.”

  “Well,” I said, choking up again, “it turns out it wasn’t the last time. We got another chance.”

  “We got another chance,” he affirmed. “And I want you to know I don’t intend to waste it. But most of all, there is something else I want, and it doesn’t involve any more talking.”

  * * *

  My feelings whipsawed between sadness and euphoria during those few days Nick and I had together before the Navy reclaimed him, but he didn’t seem to mind. He took care of me. He let me cry. He kept me fed, and hydrated, and brought me frozen spoons for my puffy eyes; mostly, we spent more than half our time in bed and the rest of it doing only the essentials so that we could get back into bed—as if we owed it to ourselves to recoup every single lost touch.

  “I am the world’s biggest idiot,” Nick said, kissing my back the second morning. “We could have been doing this all along. I made a bloody mess of things.”

  “Give me a little credit. I worked hard to help screw things up,” I said. “Like wasting all that energy on Gemma, for one thing. I’m guessing you didn’t know she’s a lesbian, either?”

  Nick’s eyes widened.

  “I caught her with Bea,” I told him.

  “Bea?”

  “In a tree house,” I added.

  “Cripes, I don’t know which part of this story is more interesting,” Nick said, bemused. “I had no clue. I’ve known them both my whole life. Gem was my first.” He looked thoughtful. “You know, I honestly never considered trying to have it off with her until after you and I broke up. And even that was partly because you were out wearing those cruel bikinis. But she wasn’t interested. I assumed I’d just been that crap when I was fifteen. Perhaps I was. Perhaps I revolted her.”

  “Why do guys always assume women being lesbians is about them?” I asked. “It’s not like quitting pasta because of one bad burned lasagna.”

  “Touché,” he said, grinning. “I think a bloke just hopes that if he’s someone’s last, he provided a lovely send-off.”

  We laughed, but remembering Freddie’s similar reaction gave me a guilty pang. I had zero remorse about ignoring the Clive incident, but Freddie was Nick’s brother, his best friend, his teammate in that chilly hierarchy of a family.

  “Speaking of Gemma,” I began. “We can’t ignore the past two years. Things happened. With other people. I need to tell you—”

  He held up a hand. “Freddie told me about Three Testicles Guy. That’s all I can take.”

  “It was three nipples,” I said, “and I should have known Freddie wasn’t to be trusted.”

  Nick wiggled to a sit. “Seriously, I will be happy to discuss the particulars of our time apart.” He paused. “Well. Not happy. I’ll do it, if that’s what you want, but I can’t think what good will come of it. I didn’t take a vow of chastity when we split up, and I certainly didn’t expect you to, ei
ther.”

  “We can’t pretend it doesn’t matter, though.”

  “Did you kill someone?” Nick asked.

  “No.”

  “Have a love child?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said.

  “Good. We could’ve made that work, but Barnes would’ve needed a raise,” he said. “Eat any babies?”

  “Not for ages.”

  “Root for the Yankees?”

  “Now you’re just being disgusting,” I said.

  He smiled. “Then I sincerely don’t care. Nothing counts except what we do now.”

  I looked at Nick and knew he meant it. And if I said that one particular petty sin out loud, it might spin us back into the dark place we’d just left, so instead I kissed him and buried it deep.

  Next to him, on the bedside table, my phone rang. Nick picked it up impulsively.

  “Hi, Lacey,” he said, then chuckled. “I don’t know why I answered this. Sorry.”

  “Nicely done,” Lacey said when I came on the phone. “I just read an article in Cosmo about the importance of the Grief Bang. It’s when you deal with bereavement via a sexual affirmation that you yourself are alive. Nick is an extremely classy Grief Bang.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly a Grief Bang,” I said, looking over at him. He had pulled out a folded cryptic crossword from his wallet. “I think we’re back together.”

  “And no more bossing you and Freddie around,” Nick said loudly, for Lacey’s benefit. “Ring him whenever you like. Part of the New World Order.”

  “Did you get that?” I asked.

  “Hard to miss it,” she said, a little flatly. “Tell him not to write checks the Crown can’t cash.”

  “Nah, you heard the man. Live and let live,” I said. “Grief bang and let grief bang.”

  “If you say so,” she said. “Well, I just called to see how you’re doing. Obviously, you’re in good hands. Maybe I will call Freddie.” There was a pause. “I’m glad something good came out of all the sadness. Just promise me there’ll still be room for all of us.”

  “I promise.”

  “I really am happy for you, Bex.” Her tone was light again.

  “I know. I love you, Lace.”

  When we hung up, I turned and looked at Nick. “So this is really happening.”

  “As long as you’re in,” Nick said, putting down the crossword and reaching across the bed to take my hand.

  “I’m in,” I said.

  “Then there is one thing I’d like to do straightaway, before we go any further. Before I have to go back to my ship.” He swallowed hard. “I want you to meet my mum.”

  * * *

  Since her disease eclipsed her mind, Emma, Princess of Wales, divided her time at Richard’s behest between verdant Trewsbury House in Gloucestershire and a cottage in Cornwall overlooking the water. Emma had loved the sea, but Osborne House—where they’d met and fallen in love, of a sort—was too impractical for Nick and Freddie to visit. Cornwall, on the other hand, is the duchy of every sitting Prince of Wales, so no one blinked when Richard bought himself a bolt-hole there. Nick enjoyed the four-hour trek, which he routinely made in rented cars to avoid press scrutiny, and so we set off the next day in a boring, borrowed white sedan, expertly tailed by PPO Popeye. It was the first time I’d sat next to Nick in a car instead of under a blanket in the back.

  “I don’t know quite how to prepare you for this,” Nick said as he shifted gears. “She’s always different. Sometimes she doesn’t seem to know I’m there. Sometimes she’ll talk, although it won’t make sense. Sometimes she’ll get angry, and sometimes there will be times where she seems like herself…” He cleared his throat. “But they’re illusions, really. Like a stopped clock being right twice a day. Whatever’s happening in her mind accidentally lines up with the real world for a split second and I can see what…things might have been like.”

  I rubbed his shoulder. He smiled before turning back to watch the road.

  “It’s nice being based near her,” he said. “I see her loads. I don’t think Freddie’s been lately, though, and Father never bothers at all.” His tone was cross.

  “Freddie told me it’s hard without any real memories of her to speak of,” I said, hoping this wasn’t violating a confidence.

  “I know. I’m not actually angry at him,” Nick admitted. “It just always gets ugly whenever anyone discusses Mum. Freddie has never cared one way or the other if it’s a secret. I’ve always felt like we owe it to her not to let the press know it beat her. But I also think it’s wrong to trot her name out falsely, and that’s where Father disagrees. He puts her name in family statements as if she’s actively involved, and it doubly hacks me off because he can use it like an alibi. If there is a perception of a functioning Princess of Wales, it gives him some benefit of the doubt if he’s seen in town with other people.”

  “That seems incautious,” I said. “At best.”

  “Too right,” Nick agreed, glancing in the rearview mirror. “He almost got caught with India Bolingbroke.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  Nick groaned. “That’s right, you probably haven’t talked to Clive,” he said. “I guess he was chatting up India’s friend Helena Heath-Hedwig at that party, and she let slip something about India being at Clarence House lately. Which is odd because her only reason for being there before was supposedly me, right? So Clive went nosing around, and I gather he saw her leaving rather late one night. It looked suspicious.”

  I gasped. “I can’t believe he went snooping around.”

  “Don’t worry, he came straight to me,” Nick said. “Jolly good of him, too, because that scoop probably would have made his career. He’s a mate, through and through. I told him I’d try to give him something he can print, as a thank-you. It’s the least I can do.”

  Then it hit me. “Wait, if she was…does that mean India and Richard have been—”

  “It looks that way,” Nick said.

  “Since when?” I winced. “Do you think it was while you and India—”

  “Please do not go any further down that path,” Nick said, shuddering. Then he brought the car to a halt, and punched a code into his mobile. Between two walls of mossy rocks, a well-camouflaged gate squeaked open.

  “We’re here,” he said.

  This was only technically a cottage. Yes, there was a thickly thatched roof, but it crowned a house two stories tall, with a perfect view of the Cornish sea, riotous flower beds, and an immaculate, sloping green lawn.

  Nick frowned at the large black sedan in the driveway.

  “I’ve never seen that before,” he said, setting his jaw.

  I leapt out of the car before he could open my door for me, so we reached the cottage’s stoop in unison. Just as Nick reached for the doorknob, it turned.

  And Richard walked out.

  Nick stood up so straight, so fast, that it knocked him backward. Richard was dressed down to the point of being incognito—khakis, a polo shirt, no hair gel. He looked…like a dad. Which may have been part of what stunned Nick so much, given that he’d never been much of one. Richard did not seem surprised to see us, but he definitely acted uncomfortable; I got the sense he’d known we were coming and hoped to be gone before we arrived. He was holding a briefcase, and his hand tensed around the handle.

  “Miss Porter,” he said.

  “Your Highness,” I replied, bobbing into a slight curtsy. Years ago, I had resisted the urge. Today, I was different. Everything was.

  “What are you doing here?” Nick asked.

  “That is no one’s concern but mine.” Richard’s tone was defensive, but it ebbed. “She is quiet. Sometimes that’s good. It means she’ll know you’re here. I…Well. Good day.”

  And with that, Richard climbed into the backseat of what was presumably his own rental, and PPO Rambo appeared from out of nowhere (the shrubberies?) to chauffeur him away. Nick gaped after him in confusion.

  “Don’t let it throw you off,” I
urged him. “Enjoy our time with your mom. We’ll figure him out later.”

  Nick still looked dazed, but he nodded and then ushered me inside the quiet house. The warm décor—comfy furniture, sunny walls, bright knickknacks and paintings—was lovely but ordinary, with none of the opulent panache of the other royal residences.

  “I was twelve when Father bought her this place,” Nick said. “He asked us what color to paint our rooms, and we ended up bossing him around about the whole thing. It’s the only time he’s ever really listened. We told him we wanted it to feel comforting, like a normal person’s house. The kind she might’ve had…” He gulped. “In another life.”

  “Oh! You’re here, Your Highness.”

  The words appeared to burst out of an enormous arrangement of roses bustling into the foyer, which revealed themselves to be attached to a petite, plump woman in her mid-fifties. She tried to curtsy, but threatened to tip over onto the floor.

  “Don’t you dare bow to me, Lesley,” Nick said, gallantly taking the arrangement from her with a peck on the check.

  “Aren’t they stunning?” she said, smoothing her starched white apron. “Every few weeks he brings the most cracking bouquets.”

  “Every few weeks?” Nick parroted hoarsely. He glanced over at me, and then appeared to right himself. “I’m terribly sorry. Where are my manners? Lesley, this is Rebecca, whom I’ve told you about. She’s here to meet Mum.”

  “A delight to meet you, my dear,” Lesley said warmly. “Ring if you need anything.”

  I followed Nick to a rectangular living room done up in nautical tones, which looked as if Richard had simply opened a home-furnishings catalog, pointed to a page, and handed it to Barnes. The southern wall of windows faced the sea, and a staircase led down to a garden with a gated pool, which Nick told me was closed off so she couldn’t wander in unsupervised. The entire house, in fact, was Emma-proofed so that she couldn’t slip out and get any further lost than she already was. This was a lovely cell inside a lovely, but unmistakable, prison.

  And there, in the left corner, in a chestnut rocking chair, sat Emma. Nick gently set the roses on the coffee table as the most profound sorrow crossed his face. I saw a childlike yearning to have his mother back juxtaposed with the achingly adult knowledge that this wish would never come true. Then that melted away, leaving behind pure love.